Harry Potter and the Order of the Hidden Flame
by dahlesreb
Summary: Alternate year 4. Missing, presumed dead, Harry was raised by a mysterious Order outside of Britain, but now he's back to take care of unfinished business. It'll be his first year at Hogwarts, but Harry is no wide-eyed, wet-behind-the-ears first year, and everyone, from Dumbledore to Voldemort to one Daphne Greengrass, is completely blindsided by Harry's unexpected return.
1. Chapter 1

**Harry Potter and the Order of the Hidden Flame**

 **Chapter 1**

Daphne Greengrass made her way down the aisles of the Hogwarts Express, dragging her trunk behind her, a solid rosewood affair finely carved with a floral pattern, polished to a bright gleam.

Now entering her fourth year, Daphne had a very specific destination in mind.

The Sorting Hat had said she'd make a fine Ravenclaw, though it had agreed with her own assessment that being a member of Slytherin House would best suit her interests.

Indeed, unlike a Ravenclaw, Daphne always saw knowledge as a means to an end rather than an end in itself.

No, when Daphne gathered information and applied logic, it always served a purpose. She knew what she wanted, and pursued it.

This certainty of purpose, this constant drive to make her dreams happen, this _ambition_ , was what made her a true Snake. A derogatory epithet beloved by Gryffindors, she embraced it, made it her own.

Her blood being as Pure as anyone's in Britain certainly helped; it almost guaranteed a comfortable existence in Slytherin.

Daphne didn't just want a comfortable existence. What Daphne held dear above all other things was _freedom_ , the ability to do as she pleased without anyone telling her no.

Daphne hated being told no.

To her it simply seemed like common courtesy. She would let others do as they pleased so long as it did not affect her, and they should extend her this same simple and basic respect.

Obvious, really. She'd felt this way as far back as she remembered.

Yet each year, it only became more apparent how little freedom she had.

First, she had spent years learning etiquette, traditions, and family lore. An unending series of prescriptions on how to speak, what to wear, who to marry. The list of restrictions grew longer every year, and of course was longer still because she was a girl.

She didn't want to be a boy, of course. Most of them seemed cursed to be obsessed with Quidditch, crude humor, and as they got older, breasts. Where was the freedom there?

No, it was like being a Muggleborn. More free in some ways, less free in others. Muggleborns were free from years of tedious lessons, true. Yet every Muggleborn had a school trunk that was absolutely _hideous_. Muggleborns were no more free from their bad taste and poor manners than men were from their chest hair.

Daphne recognized early on that she had lucked out, being born into a family in the upper echelons of both social stature and wealth. As a result, she had always applied herself to the utmost, even in the most boring lessons and interminable society events.

Her parents and their associates had always showered her with praise, told her how mature she was. Like a miniature adult, they invariably commented jokingly.

Initially she had accepted the praise, valued it. Took pride in the fact that she was more mature than her peers, more prepared for what was to come, because she was impatient to join their ranks. Adults had a degree of freedom she craved desperately.

Over the years, though, she had come to suspect that it was not maturity that set her apart from others. Adults had more experience to draw on, understood more of how the world worked, and above all, had more practice at bluster.

But they weren't uniformly responsibly, or courteous, or any of the many other qualities that they liked to associate with maturity. Mostly she suspected it was self-serving, identifying these positive qualities with something as insignificant as the passage of time.

Take her sister Astoria, for example, who was trailing behind her, keeping up a constant stream of prattle that ebbed and flowed in volume and tempo.

Daphne didn't have to turn around to know her sister was occasionally being drawn in by her reflections in the windows of the darkened cabins, slowing down in her monologue as she examined some aspect of her appearance, fading away in volume as Daphne's constant pace outdistanced her, before picking up the speed of both her feet and her tongue as she rushed to close the distance.

Astoria paused for a second, and Daphne grunted noncommittally. Fortunately that was all Astoria required and she prattled on contentedly. She zoned her sister back out and continued with her thoughts.

When she'd been younger Daphne had thought this behavior a result of Astoria's relative youth. Surely she'd become more like Daphne herself - more _mature_ \- over time.

Now she understood that her sister simply had a different personality from her. Currently in her second year at Hogwarts, Astoria wasn't anywhere near as practical, as focused, as calculating as Daphne had been in her first, and Daphne suspected she never would reach that level; one that Daphne had long surpassed.

Again, as with a Muggleborn or a boy, she wouldn't trade places with Astoria given the chance, but there were freedoms Astoria's personality granted her that Daphne envied.

Unlike her, Astoria had always skived off lessons in etiquette and manners. Her name and her beauty excused any mistakes, made them appear endearing, humanizing. People always thought she was _adorable_. _Cute_.

Daphne hated those words. They were adjectives appropriate to stumbling kittens, not young Pureblood witches of stature and great potential.

She had developed a reputation as being cold and aloof, even rigid; something which, uncharacteristically for her, was not entirely planned.

Partly it _had_ been intentional. She detested being labeled 'cute' or 'adorable,' and her appearance invited these descriptions. Creamy skin, flaxen hair, long legs, perfect proportions - she didn't want to be a hag, but she wished she didn't look so much like a princess ripped straight from a storybook. She had no intention of inviting the comparison with her behavior.

She always tried to be completely realistic and honest with herself though, and had to admit that there was more to it than that.

She simply wasn't capable of the easygoing, good-natured camaraderie that her sister had always enjoyed among groups of other Pure-blooded girls their age. Her nature required her to constantly analyze phrasing, assess reactions and weigh interests, to both detect and avoid insult or any other unintended implication.

Often, this translated into seeming stiff or unfriendly, yet she simply did not have it in her to engage with endeavors that seemed pointless, like meaningless small talk. Honestly, she didn't understand where others found the stomach for seemingly endless helpings of it.

Pulled out of her reverie by having arrived at her destination, she slid the door open to the final car of the Express. Her first year she had simply sat with the first people she had recognized, which had happened to be Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy. Listening to those two preen at each other had nearly soured her on the notion of Slytherin, possibly Hogwarts.

She hadn't remembered them being nearly so overbearing at when they had run into each other as children at social events, but a constant stream of people had been passing by, poking their heads in looking for friends. Draco and Pansy had seemed to be in a competition to be overheard talking about how much magic they knew, or how high quality and expensive their school supplies were.

The next year she had gone to the very last train on the car. Being furthest from the entrance to Platform 9 3/4, it was clearly the least used, well evidenced by its nearly pristine condition.

She levitated her and her sisters' trunks into the overhead racks and sat down, enjoying the still-plush and rip-free cushions in the seats. Really, with all the money they paid in tuition, you'd think they'd be able to hire someone to _Reparo_ the compartments' furnishings, but it seemed a quick _Evanesco_ was supposed to be acceptable.

"... don't really think I should get bangs, and I know Lucy says I'd look so much hotter, but did you see how sexy Draco looked in his Quidditch gear, and he's been dating Pansy Parkinson, and she never wears bangs ..."

Being in the quiet space of the compartment, she was unable to tune out her sister's unending flow of words, and shuddered at hearing 'sexy' followed by 'Draco'. There weren't a lot of boys at Hogwarts, and when your options were restricted to only Purebloods it really gave meaning to the phrase 'slim pickings.'

Still, Draco? Ugh. Cedric Diggory was certainly a choice specimen, aside from the inconvenience of his House. Tall and lean, a star Seeker and top student, and with those cheekbones and ready smile, he didn't need to be your type to appreciate. Michael Corner was sensitive and almost girlishly pretty with his long lashes and wavy mane of dark hair, and Roger Davies had a brooding, sophisticated air and very well-developed upper body.

None of those boys were precisely _her_ type; she suspected _boys_ in general weren't her type. She was interested in _men_. Men like her father and Lucius Malfoy, elegant yet powerful, subtle yet dominant. She couldn't imagine any of the boys she knew at Hogwarts growing into the role. Surely Lucious hadn't acted as foolishly as Draco when he'd been his age.

Regardless, she most certainly wouldn't abide being in a relationship with a puerile oaf while merely hoping he might grow into a man worthy of her affection, let alone her desire.

Unfortunately, she didn't have forever to decide. Purebloods married young, and the number of eligible bachelors rapidly diminished with each year after Hogwarts graduation.

Fortunately, her parents hadn't managed to conceive a male heir, and she knew it wasn't from lack of trying. She hoped they would give up soon; if they did, the family business would be hers to control, as the eldest daughter.

Daphne realized that her sister had stopped speaking on an upward inflection; shockingly, it seemed she was actually expecting an answer for once. Daphne mentally replayed the last few moments of her sister's rambling, something she'd always had a knack for.

"... so horrible, like that Sirius Black, can you believe he broke into Hogwarts and attacked Ronald Weasley, I mean the Weasleys are blood traitors but they _are_ Purebloods, do you think he'd attack us because Daddy went to America during the war?"

Daphne looked over at her sister and felt a moment's sympathy. She actually looked frightened.

"Don't be silly, Astoria." Daphne frowned. She hadn't meant to sound harsh - she rarely did - but it _was_ silly. "The Weasley Twins turned in that map they had when they couldn't find Ron in a rare moment of responsibility for those two. They said they saw Sirius Black on there once, after he'd been spotted in the school. The staff watched that map day and night for weeks, and Black didn't show up once. He grabbed Ron's pet rat and fled. What do you expect from a madman Azkaban escapee? We were just unlucky he was fixated on Hogwarts. He's gone."

Astoria was still frowning, twirling a strand of her platinum locks around a finger, a habit their mother had despaired of weaning her from. Daphne tried a different approach.

"Honestly, the real danger last year was Professor Lupin. Can you believe he was a werewolf?" she asked, trying to mimic the inflection other girls used when gossiping. Her sister should have known better, but that had never stopped her sister before. The wrinkles of apprehension melted from Astoria's guileless face.

"Oh Merlin, can you believe that? A an actual werewolf? In Hogwarts? Lucy had a _crush_ on him, can you believe it, he was so drab and frumpy..."

Daphne had heard about Lucretia Travers' crush on Professor Lupin more times than she wanted to count, but felt accomplished at having eased her sister's fears. Jabbering was Astoria's natural, happy state - voluntary silence indicated something wrong.

True, plenty of strange things had happened in Daphne's three years at Hogwarts. Her first year, a corridor on the Third Floor had been off limits and there had been rumors of a monster guarding a treasure, possibly a Dragon or even a Cerberus.

Then the Gryffindors had come from nearly last place to win the House Cup when Dumbledore had given just enough points to three of her fellow first-years for alleged heroics, details of which were merely hinted at.

All anyone knew was that the next year the Third Floor corridor was no longer off limits and they had a new Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor, Professor Quirrell having disappeared without a convincing explanation.

Neville Longbottom, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger. Two blood traitors and a Muggleborn know-it-all, they had in one mysterious afternoon earned more points than she had earned for Slytherin in an entire year of hard work in classes.

That had been the first clear indication that Dumbledore, who was supposed to be neutral in his capacity as Headmaster, favored the Gryffindors in general and over Slytherin in particular. Daphne had initially dismissed these stories - staples of the Slytherin common hall - as wild-eyed conspiracy theory.

Further confirmation of Dumbledore's bias had been forthcoming the next year, when a half dozen students and Caretaker Filch's cat were petrified, with graffiti stating that the Chamber of Secrets of legend had been opened.

Again Slytherin had been in the lead for the House cup. And again, the same trio of now second year Gryffindors pulled off some secret heroics. This time Dumbledore's vague story involved the rescue of Weasley's younger sister from another monster.

Again, equally sparse on detail. And again, the only fact that could truly be nailed down was the disappearance of their Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. The grapevine placed him in a special ward in St. Mungo's, totally insane.

Then last year, again the Gryffindor Trio had been in the thick of the danger, apparently taking it upon themselves to do what the Aurors and Dementors were sent to Hogwarts for after Sirius Black was spotted in Hogsmeade. It was Hermione and Neville who had discovered that the Twins had an enchanted map that could show if Sirius Black was in the school, and convinced them to take it to the professors.

Even for Gryffindors, those three were impressively able to wander right into the thick of whatever odd trouble confronted Hogwarts each year. What was truly remarkable was that they continued to emerge unscathed, the brief stays with Madame Pomfrey notwithstanding.

Daphne admitted that Hermione was a competent witch. Grudgingly - and never aloud - she allowed it was even _possible_ Hermione was her superior academically, thought most certainly _not_ when it came to wandwork. Daphne simply didn't prioritize memorizing every last footnote in their texts.

They were at Hogwarts to learn magic, not to learn facts _about_ magic, after all.

With a lurch, the train started moving. Daphne was pleased that no one had entered their compartment yet; it seemed they'd have peace and quiet on their trip to Hogwarts.

She didn't hate being around other people in general, but various tensions made social interactions difficult for Slytherins. The Puffs and the Claws generally united behind the brash Lions against the more cohesive and calculating Slytherins, whose natural ambition led them to win the House Cup more years than not.

Yet while the Slytherins presented a united front to the usual trifecta they faced between Houses, intra-house tensions and politics were far worse. The other Houses may have had numbers, but they simply weren't playing the game at the same level as the Slytherins.

Most of the Slytherins were raised on intrigue, and the vanishingly rare Muggleborn Sorted into the House must feel as if dropped into shark-infested waters with a profusely bleeding cut.

Of course, there were cliques of normal friendliness within the House, particularly among the girls. Unlike the boys, the girls familial loyalty wasn't determined for the most part while at Hogwarts. That happened when you were married, and in the traditional patriarchy of Wizarding Britain, at that point your loyalty was to your husband's family over your father's.

This meant the only true issue of contention among the Slytherin girls was their competition over the small pool of eligible husbands. Common wisdom among Pureblood women had it that the best men were always taken before they graduated Hogwarts. And as far as she could tell it seemed true; her parents and those of the the vast majority of her friends had at least _met_ at Hogwarts, when not already romantically involved as students.

Given the slim pickings at Hogwarts, by the time the seven year hourglass of your school years started to get bottom-heavy, even the most kind-hearted and good-natured years of Slytherin girls got catty. Her own crop of Slytherin witches, for better or worse, weren't much of either of those compound adjectives.

As a result, she didn't have anyone she'd label a close friend. She didn't ever pity herself - she never engaged in pointless emotional caterwauling. However, she also didn't mislead herself in order to feel better about her failures.

Friends were important. She knew they were important to gaining power and prestige. She had had to learn, in detail, about the greatest witches and wizards of history. Though they varied immensely as individuals, one common feature throughout, be they witch or wizard, Light or Dark, was that they had a group of loyal and devoted followers. Their cadre, their coterie, usually the stuff of lesser legends themselves.

The Snakes had their own legends, of friendships forged at Hogwarts that later went on to achieve great things in the world beyond. Many Ministry administrations had formed in Hogwarts, and a preponderance of them were in Slytherin. Unfortunately in recent years, all had been overshadowed, no pun intended, by the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters.

Well, _fortunately_ , if you asked Draco Malfoy and his junior Death Eater sycophants. Not that Daphne ever would ask those cretins. She avoided talking to them as much as socially permissible. Not because she was scared. She had no reason to be; her name's prestige and her father's wealth and murky reputation ensured that they wouldn't dare try anything with her or her sister.

Daphne simply hated what He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had done, to the Wizarding world at large and Slytherin House most of all. Their reputation was tarnished beyond hope of imminent redemption. Already they had been the house of the cunning, the power-hungry, the manipulative.

There were rumors about Salazar Slytherin in his later years, twisted Dark rituals, quite distasteful but also largely unsubstantiated. Very little of what little was known about the Slytherin founder could be deemed fact rather than mere myth.

Yet there was nothing mythical about the Dark Lord except the degree of his brutality, his callous disregard for Pureblood tradition when it did not fit his personal vision of absolute personal dominion over any, Magic or Muggle, who survive his bloody ascension.

The Greengrass family was one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, deemed the most Pure of British Pureblood families. Further distinguishing their name, they were one the Neutral Nine, which for _centuries_ had been a neutral coalition. They had made sure that any, Dark or Light, could buy wands and brooms and potions and regulation-compliant cauldrons. They had provided neutral ground where representatives from feuding factions could treat for peace.

You-Know-Who had laughed in their faces. Many of her father's closest friends had been killed when they insisted on remaining neutral, not being Marked as his servants. She wasn't supposed to know that her own family had had dealings that war that were decidedly Dark, but she had overheard her father and her uncle whispering once and knew that some of the reputation her father had, which kept boys in her year respectful, was well-deserved.

In the end, they had only avoided being Marked themselves by fleeing to America during the height of the war. She'd actually been born there, though they'd moved back to England when she was still a baby. Her grandparents had been able to convince Voldemort that it was necessary for the business they were doing on his behalf, due to the strict sanctions and privation of war at home.

Daphne had also overheard the Dark Mark was inactive, not gone. No one understood the Mark fully, but her father's generation of neutral Slytherins knew as much as anyone not Marked could know, and the general consensus was that if the Dark Lord had died, the Dark Mark would have vanished, or possibly simply become a mundane ink tattoo.

Such a Mark should not have any residue of Dark Magic, yet the Dark Marks were used to convict Death Eaters after the Dark Lord's sudden disappearance and apparent defeat at the hands of the Potter baby. The Boy-Who-Lived, they called him at first. Later, somewhat snidely, he became The-Boy-Who-We-Lost.

Later, in retrospect, she would always find it odd that her train of thought, as inexorable sometimes as Astoria's vocalized equivalent, led her to be thinking of Harry Potter at that moment. She was absently staring at the far end of the train compartment, wondering how her Hogwarts years would have been if Potter hadn't disappeared as a toddler.

Vanished. Under mysterious circumstances, quite possibly abducted, from whatever seclusion he'd been sent off to for the sake of security. Safety at the expense of freedom, a repeating refrain that had become quite tiresome to her. Even when it was not her freedom at stake, she found it oppressive by proxy, a matter of principle that anyone's choices be taken from them by another's decree.

It was with these thoughts that her train of thought ground to a halt. The actual train she was in continued to clatter rapidly along the rails, undeterred by her musings. Her mind wasn't suited to being idle, and when not engaged with itself, it engaged with her environment.

The thick curtains on the windows at far end of the compartment were drawn along both sides, the gas lamps set at the ends distinguished. When she and Astoria had entered she'd given a glance, but had been distracted. This was why she felt a sinking in her gut, a sudden thrill, when one of the shadows resolved itself under her scrutiny into a shape. A human shaped shape.

Daphne wasn't eloquent when she was frightened. She didn't scare easily, but she was unnerved that she had missed this stranger's presence in the compartment she shared each year with her sister. _Her_ compartment. She knew it was not hers, objectively, but she had spent two blissful years riding the Hogwarts Express in peace in this compartment, and it was starting to feel a little bit like home.

A home that had now been violated. This stranger - male, with those shoulders - was shrouded in a dark cloak with the hood up, only the lower half of his face visible. She was convinced another student would have made themselves known once they had heard Astoria's prattling, if only to plead for a moment's respite.

His preternatural stillness unnerved her. He was sprawled back into the corner of his seat, head tilted down, as if sleeping. Yet no one slept without shifting a muscle. Part of the reason Daphne hadn't seen the stranger was that he was as motionless as a statue. There was no hint of sound or movement from the other end of the cabin; she still wasn't entirely sure it wasn't just a trick of the poor light.

Astoria continued to chatter, oblivious, eyes fixed out the window on the Scottish countryside zipping by. Remaining nonchalant, Daphne put a hand on Astoria's shoulder. Their family wasn't big on physical contact, and her sister immediately trailed off and turned to look at her.

She caught her sister's eyes and rolled her own exaggeratedly toward the far end of the compartment. Astoria followed her gaze, turning her head and staring openly and immediately opening her mouth to speak. So much for being discrete.

"Honestly, Daphne, I know you're quiet but you can just say words at me. You know, with your mouth. Am I supposed to be looking at something? Hey, what's that lumpy thing over there, oh-Merlin-it's-Sirius-Black-he's-going-to-kill-meEEEEE!"

Astoria's snarky tone had rapidly shifted to panicked gibbering once she'd taken notice of the ominous strange lurking at the far end of the compartment. She leapt to her feet, drawing her wand, and Daphne also leapt up, hoping to keep her sister from doing anything rash. Merlin, what if this was the new Defense professor?

She'd been focused on her sister for only a few moments. She only had time to reach for her sister's wrist when the incantation left her lips.

"Locomotor WIBBLY!"

There was a fluttering, snapping sound, a shifting of shadows in the cabin. One moment the stranger had been an unmoving splotch on the far end of the cabin. The next, she was staring into a fierce pair of green eyes. For a moment she didn't hear her sister's frantic screams. Her awareness of her surroundings returned an instant later, Astoria's wails snapping back to the fore.

Daphne took in the tousled mane of black hair framing tanned skin. The straight posture, broad shoulders, strong chest. The cocky half-smile. She inhaled deeply and smelled the outdoors - woodsmoke and pine needle, the subtle fragrance of herbs and hints of citrus.

Orange, not lemon, she identified absently. Her mother loved fine perfumes.

Slowly, her thoughts caught up with her other faculties. She realized the stranger held her sister's wrist loosely in his hand, causing her wand to point harmlessly at the floor. She imagined that to go along with that sculpted forearm, a symphony of muscle and sinew, that hand must be rough, calloused, the grip gentle but unyielding, then shook herself. What was wrong with her?

Obviously, what was wrong with her was that she was facing a boy her own age who looked _entirely_ too good. Astoria had taken notice of this as well, as her screams had cut off and she was now studying the boy's face intently, her captive wand-arm no longer her main focus.

Daphne frowned. Even Pansy hadn't been this boy-crazy as a second year. She really needed to keep an eye on Astoria this year. In this instance, though, Daphne couldn't blame her sister. There was something quite exotic, a hint of danger, but in an exciting rather than a worrying way, about the stranger.

He had been talking for a few moments now, she realized. She consulted her short-term memory to reconstruct the words she'd missed.

"Wow, so sorry. Didn't mean to startle you ladies. Got here early and tried to find a quiet corner for a bit of a nap. My sincere apologies, really, overreacted when I heard the commotion. So sorry."

With those words he dropped her sister's wrist, indeed appearing less fierce now. Not quite sheepish, but certainly slightly embarrassed. She kept silent, observing him. One of her first lessons had been that the best way to get an impression of someone is to be quiet and let them take the lead in the interaction.

The strange boy was impressive. His eyes flickered from her, to her sister, to the racks above them containing their luggage, and then back to her, all in a heartbeat. He gave her a more thorough once-over, easily detected but far less overt than even the best behaved Pureblood boys had been lately.

Particularly given the tight fit of the robe she was wearing for her first day back at Hogwarts. His eyes went to her feet and back to her eyes, like bouncing a rubber ball off the ground and catching it. He didn't leer, like some boys, or blush, like most, nor did he appear entirely disinterested, like a few.

Only after a few seconds of silence had passed did she realize that she was caught in his gaze again, a fly in honey. She gave herself a shake - internally, she was _much_ too good to every _visibly_ shake herself - and opened her mouth to give the boy an appropriate scolding for daring lay hands on her sister, startled awake or not.

As usual, Astoria had been less comfortable with the stretching silence than I, and words were already tumbling out of her mouth, rapidly increasing in speed and pitch in proportion to her excitement.

"Merlin, you scared us! We thought you were Sirius Black! What are you doing, hiding in the back of the train like this? Who are you? Don't you know an escaped convict is on the loose? You should be more careful. Are you a student? Why aren't you wearing Hogwarts robes? Oh Merlin, that scar, you're Harry Potter!"

This revelation seemed to stun even Astoria into silence. Daphne snapped her mouth shut, which had remained open, poised for a gap in her sister's tirade. Her eyes snapped to said lightning-bolt shaped scar. Certainly the most famous scar in Magical Britain, a scar everyone had been hoping to catch a glimpse of for as long as she remembered.

When he didn't deny the charge, instead looking even more visibly embarrassed, Daphne realized with a sinking feeling that this really _was_ Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived himself. She'd never had the same silly fantasies Astoria and her friends entertained, of finding the Boy-Who-Was-Lost and rescuing him from his exile.

Silly, like the idea of kissing a pathetic frog and getting a dashing prince. Life didn't work like that. Though, she wouldn't mind kissing- no! Her mind would _obey_ her. She tore her attention back to what he was saying.

"Ah, yes. Harry Pan-," His voice hitched for a moment, and he cleared his throat. "Potter. Harry Potter. That's me. Pleasure. Uh, Hogwarts robes? Ah, I knew I forgot something..."

Potter trailed off, looking annoyed. He plucked at his own robes, colored dark green and cut in an untraditional style. Not European or American, she knew those cuts; it was the family business, after all. No, this was an Asian look. Vietnam, Thailand, Burma maybe. If he'd been hiding in the southeast Asian jungles it was no wonder they hadn't found him all these years.

"Am I a Hogwarts student - long story. Short answer, I don't know. That's up to this Dumbledore to decide, I suppose."

Daphne couldn't place his accent. It seemed to shift, vaguely American, then vaguely English, then vaguely Australian or maybe South African, and back. Nothing to give a clue to where he had been all these years.

Harry cleared his throat.

"Well, again, sorry about the commotion. Not a great first impression. Need to work on that. I'll just go back..."

Daphne realized she still hadn't uttered a syllable. She spoke quickly, before Potter could turn around.

"Please, it was nothing."

There was a time to scold, to insist on one's place being observed and respected. There was also a time to be gracious, and Potter was clearly embarrassed by his actions. Really, _grabbing_ a Pureblood witches' _wrist_. She didn't let her thoughts stray back to thoughts of that grasp.

"We have you at a disadvantage, Mr. Potter. I am Daphne Greengrass, and this is my sister Astoria. Forgive her output, she was merely startled by your sudden action."

Daphne quickly felt her composure return. The rote formality and politeness quickly returning her firmly to her comfort zone.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Potter!" Astoria squeaked simperingly.

"It is _understandably_ shocking to meet you in this matter," Daphne continued, with slight emphasis to indicate her apology had been unnecessary, merely good manners.

"As you must know, you're quite famous among Hogwarts students. You were on the Hogwarts books - we were meant to be in the same year, if you hadn't disappeared. Instead, you've been thought lost, presumed dead, for over a decade. No one has heard of your return to society or that you will be attending Hogwarts. That news would have travelled as fast as owls can fly."

She left it there, not asking any questions explicitly, as was proper. That had been another of the first lessons she'd learned, lessons Astoria had the good sense to remember for once apparently, based on the fact she wasn't filling the silence Daphne left hanging in the air like a question mark.

"Ah, yes. Ms. Greengrass, Ms. Greengrass. Pleasure's all mine. Long story, but I've been... fine. Alive. Busy. It's... a long story. Complicated."

Potter had a clipped way of speaking, never using full sentences as she had been trained to. He had rough manners, but some manners were clearly present, judging by how he hadn't used their first names. Rough material could be shaped, refined, by one with sufficient vision and skill.

Daphne frowned fleetingly at her wandering thoughts. "Yes, I'm sure it must be, and we don't mean to pry. Don't let us keep you from your rest; you're quite welcome to share our cabin, and we'd welcome the opportunity to answer any questions you might have. Such as about the required dress code at Hogwarts, or the likely punishment to expect for failing to abide by it."

She tried for a friendly, open smile - not the easiest expression to pull from her repertoire - and sat back down on her seat. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Astoria slowly follow suit, but she kept her gaze on Potter. She was realizing that despite the fluid confidence and physicality he had displayed earlier in moving so quickly and decisively, he was still a bit awkward in his manner.

She didn't want to startle him. She didn't need to break eye contact to know that Astoria was doubtless making moon eyes at him. Some things, like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, were utterly predictable and simply couldn't be helped.

Instead of retreating to the darkened corner of the compartment he'd been skulking in - she didn't believe that he had slept through Astoria's continuous monologue - Potter sank to his haunches in an easy squat in front of them. Internally, she winced. Her father or Lucius Malfoy would never _squat_.

She couldn't help notice the way his thigh muscles were outlined against the stretched fabric of his oddly-cut robes, though. Perhaps squatting wasn't _completely_ unacceptable behavior for a proper wizard.

Merlin, she really _was_ off kilter. She focused on her breath, inhale, exhale, steady and simple, calming. She had no problem with patience, and for once her sister's undeniable curiosity was keeping her equally rapt in attention.

Slowly, haltingly, leaving more unsaid than said, each tantalizing hint of a question answered, like striking the head off a hydra, led a multitude of new questions to spring up in it's place.

Yet even Astoria didn't interrupt.


	2. Chapter 2

**Harry Potter and the Order of the Hidden Flame**

 **Chapter 2**

The boy who would soon be revealed as none other than the one-and-only Harry Potter stared into the eyes of the girl in front of him. His heart rate was still elevated. It should have subsided by now. Were her eyes purple, or was it just the light?

Harry realized he heard screaming. Right next to his ear. There was a wrist gripped loosely in his fist, a wand dangling from the hand attached to that wrist. Threat neutralized. The wrist, which upon reflection was quite small and soft, was attached to an equally small and soft-looking girl. A screaming girl.

Harry released his grip as if it held a viper rather than a small girl's wand arm.

 _Observe._

He took in his environment - two girls, similar appearance, probably related. One my age, unarmed, one a few years younger, armed but unresisting. Shiny trunks on the rack above them. Fancy. Shiny robes too, high thread count. Rich girls. Pretty, too. Especially the older one. Indigo. That was the color of her eyes. Precise attention to detail had been drilled into him from the start.

 _Orient._

He had overreacted. The girl had shot a harmless jinx at him. He should have known that, but he had been lulled near to sleep by the girl's relaxed babbling, which seemed to bubble forth from her as merrily and ceaseless as a mountain brook. He was used to a certain element of chaos, of uncertainty, but this situation was something unforeseen and his preparation had been far too brief. His nerves were on edge.

 _Decide._

First, de-escalate, he told himself. Apologize. Try to speak like a normal human being. You're not giving a report, you're talking to girls your own age. You always wanted to meet girls your own age. Introduce yourself. Act normal. Was it precise attention to detail that was urging him to make a more accurate assessment of the indigo-eyed girl's finely tailored robes? What color were her sister's eyes again? _Heartbeat._

 _Act._

He had delayed too long. The OODA loop, long a part of his training, relied on speed. The goal was to get multiple cycles off each heartbeat. He hadn't been this slow in years. Her hair was best described as golden, the way it shimmered with a metallic glitter. He wasn't sure what color eyes the younger one had. He was pretty sure they weren't brown.

This was bad. He was freezing up. He had been drilled on how to act, what to say, but was drawing a blank. Deer in the headlights. His training had prepared him for a variety of situations, but girls his age had the most rare, the only ones that could still inspire any anxiety. _Heartbeat._

Two heartbeats, no action. He could already imagine sweat with a hint of blood in his mouth, anticipating the familiar aftertaste of the excruciating "training sessions" he faced as a deterrent from failure. Now or never. Forget the script. Improvise.

Unfortunately, as if reading that last word from his mind, the younger girl let out another formless stream of breathless chatter, but he caught the words 'Harry Potter' and 'Hogwarts robes.'

Harry normally enjoyed surprises during training - nothing worse the monotony of routine. He liked the challenge and thrill of improvising in difficult situations, pitting his skill and his will against any obstacles between him and his goal. He thrived on it.

The problem was, he had no skills with girls his own age. Limited skills with _any_ remotely normal kids of any age or gender. Very limited information. He'd been yanked out of the middle of his training, the full course of which had been essentially set in stone as far as he'd ever been concerned. Surprises were built in, sure, but the long term plan never changed.

Until everything changed. The day his caretakers had pulled him out of a meditative retreats - the Shaolin monks were still irritated about _that_ fiasco. Revealed his true identity, the identity of his birth, to him out of the blue. That he wasn't like his fellow trainees or his teachers. He'd always known that he could use what some called 'magic,' but he'd also been given explanations to explain what would have otherwise been inexplicable.

 _The path of every Mage along the path is unique; we can merely occasionally observe some of the territory, but never create a clear map for others to follow._

That was what he had been told, until long after he was tired of hearing it.

Until a week ago, when his mentor, the man he trusted above all others, his one constant in life, a fixed boulder in shifting sands, calmly told him it was all the truth - for all the _other_ trainees in the Order. He, however, was different. Fo him it was a bold deception, an outright lie to keep him working hard when further progress was unlikely if not impossible.

Indeed, he had been working for years to master abilities that, for him, would have been comparatively effortless _with a wand._

He was a god-damned _Wand-Wielder_. One of the freaking _Covenant-Bound_. He'd been training his whole life to enforce a secret he was never supposed to know. Now, due to circumstances outside of his - and admittedly, his mentor's - control, he was back in it, pulled back in by a ghost, a lurking shadow from his past he hadn't even known everyone had thought long dead.

And it was up to him to defeat him. He was used to having a solemn duty, but it was one he was supposed to be prepared for. Trained to the point of exhaustion for year after year as far back as he could remember for.

Instead, this. Wizards and witches, as they called themselves, and wands and Muggles and Purebloods and Dumbledores and Voldemorts. All gobbledegook to him. Which apparently was also a real language, which Goblins spoke. Goblins were also real. His mind was still spinning from his rapid briefings, the last of which had ended scant hours past.

His briefings always included an estimation of unknowns. The unknown in this briefing had been so enormous, so unfathomable, that it had focused purely on what was known. He was in uncharted waters here. Terra incognita.

Sleep hadn't been a priority during the Wand-Wielder crunch session, and he had dropped his guard. No, it's Wizard, not Wand-Wielder, he reminded himself. They didn't call _themselves_ Wand-Wielders.

He quickly began damage control, fumbling for something appropriate to say. Nearly said his name was Harry Panther. Off to a great start. He trailed off into silence and continued holding the gaze of the older girl. He realized he had been staring at her for a while.

She just stared back, seemingly unperturbed next to her visibly flustered sister.

Could he leave? Would that seem strange? He had been cautioned not to make a bad impression. Repeatedly. He had mucked things up nicely, and in situations such as these a tactical retreat was sometimes the best course. Disengage, reassess.

He bit out an awkward apology. He was used to giving precise reports in rapid, laconic language. Detailed but unadorned with anything irrelevant. Maximizing information throughput. He tried to sound casual. Apologized again, made an excuse, prepared to flee.

The older girl interrupted. Her voice was high and clear, melodic and tinged with a cultured drawl. Daphne Greengrass. Sister, Astoria. Like in Queens? He'd heard these people often had weird names here. Old-fashioned. The elite unit of the Order that had trained him normally only accept the sons of members of the Order shortly after birth.

They were given new names, simple names, glorified call-signs. He was Panther. The other trainees had called him Pan. Their true names were kept from them until after their training was completed, and he had expected to be Pan for at least another half decade.

No, he had been Panther then. His training was cut short. Traditionally that only happened one way, and quite rarely in recent centuries. The training had become much safer, the healing techniques more effective, over the years.

He was no longer Panther. He was Harry James Potter. He liked the name, liked the way it rolled off his tongue when he'd practiced saying it in the mirror. _I am Harry James Potter, a Wizard and a student at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

All still seemed rather odd, though. Really, who named a school after an unappealing growth on a mud-loving farm animal? Those four founders, with yet another set of odd names, must have had good senses of humor. Was it supposed to be a pun of 'hogwash,' too?

Daphne had invited him to stay and chat, in a lot of words. His briefings had told him to expect old-fashioned formality, but this was all a bit much. There weren't even any adults watching.

Well, no exit route anymore, Harry thought. He drew a deep controlled breath, dropped to a crouch in front of them instead of crossing to the other side of the wide compartment. He was unused to sitting on cushions and didn't want to introduce further confusion into his already chaotic world.

A squat was how he traditionally gave his reports. Low to the ground, minimize your profile. He felt exposed standing and speaking, something he'd have to change. One thing at a time, though. The girls didn't speak, waiting meekly, their alert and focused eyes the only indication of their hunger for answers.

Answers he mostly couldn't give, some because he didn't know them others because he was technically no longer a part of his unit, he was still bound by the oaths they all swore early in their training. He threw out the rehearsed script - it had been prepared for a larger audience and would sound stilted in this more intimate setting.

Harry had a feeling the older girl, Daphne, would pick up on that immediately. While her sister's eyes were wide with innocent interest bordering on awe, Daphne's eyes were narrowed, shrewd and perceptive. He doubted she missed much. He'd have to be careful. Best stick as close to the plan as possible, but surely a little deviation couldn't hurt much.

He finished the controlled release of the breath he'd taken and began his report.

"I was abducted, I guess you'd say, when I was still a baby. From my aunt and uncle. Easiest kidnapping they'd ever done, they told me, later. When I was older."

Harry suppressed a grimace. Speaking in this casual, wordy manner was difficult, made him sound unintelligent. It is what it is, he told himself, get on with it.

"Best kidnappers ever too. Had a cool childhood. The guy who arranged my kidnapping, kind of became my dad. I didn't know he wasn't my real dad until recently. Didn't know I was a wizard. Didn't even know my name was Harry Potter."

The pair of girl's eyebrows had been climbing steadily as he spoke, until he was surprised they didn't detach and start floating up to the ceiling. Yet they didn't talk, so he pressed on.

"We traveled a lot. Was all over. Education was a bit spotty but I learned the basics. My… da was outdoorsy. We did a lot of…, outdoorsy stuff. Hunting, fishing, camping?"

Harry realized he sounded way too tentative. This telling of his life was simply too outlandish in its artificial mundanity, when his own life had been one of constant training, mental and physical. Being reasonably honest about his actual life so-far would simply invite more questions.

Questions he wasn't allowed to answer, concerning topics Wand-Wielders were forbidden from even being aware of.

"We traveled a lot. Just about every continent, all around. For my da's… job. Never too long in one environment keeps you sharp, he said. Ahh. Sharp for business dealings, that is."

Harry realized that they had already promised not to pry, and that he should wrap up his turn at show and tell and let them have a go at it. He could fill in some of those holes in his knowledge.

That last thought's phrasing sent his mind wandering in an unfortunate. He forced his eyes not to stray downward. _The eyes betray the mind._ That had been an adage in his training. He kept his eyes locked on her indigo ones, and cleared his throat again.

"So, I found out right before the start of the summer. Da whisked me out of Nepal-"

Had he imagined it, or did the slightest expression of satisfaction flit across Daphne's face? Gone now, back to polite interest. He continued.

"Err, and brought me to London. We went to Diagon Alley, got me a wand from some creepy old dude and a stack of books twice as tall as me. Tried to cram three years of lessons in. Think I got all the basics, anyway. Not a fun summer, though…"

He trailed off, hoping one of them would hop in, but they seemed content to wait for more revelations.

"So, I guess I know a bit of magic now, but I'm still pretty clueless when it comes to Hogwarts. You- err, we- are supposed to be in Houses? I read their names, but I only remember Hufflepuff because it sounds so stupid."

He frowned quickly. The notion that these people, especially the rich ones, were sticklers for proper manners, had been thoroughly drilled into his skull.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, how rude of me. I didn't mean to offend you, if you are Huff-"

 _That_ seemed to spur both of them out of attentive silence. Apparently, even suggesting they might be Hufflepuffs _did_ offend them. At least they seemed to agree it was a silly name. They didn't seem to think much of the people the named applied to either.

Now Astoria was off, though. Her sister seemed slightly exasperated, though she hid it well, but evidently there was no stopping the younger girl once turned on, given proper impetus. Like that pink bunny from the battery commercials he'd seen on American television.

He was reminded of the names of the house and their basic traits. Harry was trained to retain the key facts, to triangulate the truth from conflicting instances of biased testimony.

Gryffindors - brave and idealistic at their best, reckless and overzealous at worst.

Hufflepuffs - steadfast hard workers at their best, but their individuality was often overshadowed by their loyalty to the group.

Ravenclaws - studious and smart, but often aloof. Intellectuals, but often prickly loners unable to be part of a team.

And finally, Slytherins. The girls had both quickly and proudly claimed their membership that house, and quick to extol its virtues. Slytherins were ambitious, cunning realists. The flaws were harder to detect in their descriptions. They presented them as flaws in others - they misunderstood Slytherins, were jealous of Slytherins.

Harry suspected that the bad apples among the Slytherins were those who put the pursuit of power ahead of everything, even their own humanity.

Those were the kind of bad apples Harry knew. What his endless pursuit of mastery was meant to prepare him for. He looked forward to it. He had a stubborn streak a mile wide and had been castigated for his foolhardiness as often as he'd been praised for his daring.

Harry suspected that he might be a Gryffindor. He didn't really care about power or knowledge. All he'd ever wanted to do was his duty. To his mind, this meant fighting bad guys, and that sounded like something Gryffindors would do.

Judging by the sneer contorting Astoria's pretty face when she listed the many flaws of the Gryffindors, there was a fair amount of bad blood between the Gryffindors and the Slytherins. Perfect. Nothing got bad guys making mistakes like some good old-fashioned good guy-bad guy banter.

Harry had only one hesitation. He'd never shirk his duty, but he didn't want to see that same sneer mirrored on Daphne's face and directed at him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Harry Potter and the Order of the Hidden Flame**

 **Chapter 3**

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, Supreme Mugwump, Chief Warlock, et cetera, scrutinized the boy sitting in front of him.

The Headmaster's wizened face was arranged in friendly lines, his eyes twinkling merrily, in stark contrast to the maelstrom of thoughts and emotions that whirled in his brain.

Albus had lost years off his life when young Harry Potter had disappeared, the Dursleys having been completely negligent in their care of him. He had quickly realized that entrusting the care of the Potter scion to those Muggles had been a grave error. The boy should have been kept close at hand, not so far outside his control. Why hadn't he listened to Minerva, and later Arabella, when they had warned him about the Dursleys?

He felt great relief at seeing the return of Britain's greatest weapon against Voldemort, at this seeming miracle. Whatever ambiguity over the role of Neville Longbottom and Harry Potter in Sybill's prophecy had existed when the prophecy had been given had vanished when young Harry survived Voldemort's Killing Curse.

He also felt great joy that Harry Potter was alive. He had lived a long life and regretted many things, but failing James and Lily, both in keeping them alive and in keeping their child safe, was high among them. The two of them had been a shining light in dark times, perhaps the easiest Head Boy and Girl selections ever made.

Yet growing apprehension also gnawed at Albus's gut. Harry's eye's hadn't wavered from the patch of skin directly between the Headmaster's eyes. The spot was starting to itch, and it took a measure of Albus's control to prevent his nose from twitching to relieve the feeling.

Now, there wasn't anything inherently suspicious about this, not in theory. Many Pureblood children were taught this basic defense against Legilimency. Occlumency took many years to master and families needed their secrets protected in the meantime. Many parents themselves never fully mastered Occlumency. The arts were obscure enough that only the more paranoid families paid them much mind.

This obscurity meant that even with training, most witches and wizards were rather lax in applying these precautions. While avoided prolonged eye contact, most couldn't avoid quick glances. Eyes conveyed a great deal, and it was natural to seek this information during a conversation.

Extremely cautious wizards like Lucius Malfoy tended to employ a variety of strategies to avoid making these errors. They'd look around, study objects, pace, anything to avoid directly facing a skilled Legilimens like Dumbledore for very long. They also aimed to keep such interactions as brief and infrequent as possible.

Harry Potter, on the other hand, seemed frozen in time. His posture was erect, relaxed, not making any contact with the high backrest of his wooden chair. He didn't fidget or look around, simply sat there with back straight, shoulders back, fingers interlaced in his lap, feet planted flat on the ground, all as still as a Muggle painting.

Albus could have believed him Petrified except that when Albus himself moved in any way, Harry's eyes, and only his eyes, moved smoothly to track the spot between Albus's own eyes, as if attached by a taut invisible rope. This level of discipline would have been unsettling in an adult; it was quite unnerving to see from a fourteen year old.

There was something about that unwavering stare that triggered dusty but vivid memories, from a time of conflict and madness long past, long won, consigned to a great many history books and a single lonely, impregnable fortress.

Albus wasn't sure why he was being reminded of those times. Harry Potter had nothing to do with any of that. Still, he trusted his instincts; there was something oddly familiar about the boy's odd, almost… _military_ demeanor. Albus almost frowned, then schooled his expression.

Finding those answers would take some time with his Pensieve. He'd let this silence stretch long enough. Harry clearly wasn't going to speak first, having silently accepted Albus's invitation to take a seat. How had he gotten into the castle and found Albus's office? He'd only just returned to his office after the Welcoming Feast and sat down when the portraits had told him that none other than Harry Potter himself was standing outside the gargoyle.

"Harry, my boy, what a delightful surprise it is to see you at Hogwarts, a delightful surprise indeed!" Albus's face crinkled, eyes twinkling fiercely, and he spent a moment beaming at Harry, inviting him to speak. Silence. Albus let his expression shift into one of sadness.

"I must apologize to you, Harry. I failed you, failed your parents, who put you on the books for Hogwarts right after you were born. Everyone in Britain was shocked when you disappeared. I had taken a number of precautions aimed at keeping you safe, but in hindsight they were quite clearly not sufficient, and I have always deeply regretted this shortcoming."

Albus paused again, face contrite, staring at his desk as if in a reverie. Still the boy was silent. After a long moment, Albus flicked his eyes back up at Harry's, but Harry was utterly impassive. He would not, it seemed, be caught off guard for even a moment, or respond until actually asked a question. Very well, Albus thought, and grinned broadly.

"Of course, I have a great many questions for you, my dear boy. A great many questions! One can only ask one question at a time though, of course, and the most important is apparent. You've always had a place here at Hogwarts. It is my duty as the Headmaster to inform you of this now, tell you what the letter we couldn't deliver should have. Will you accept? Harry, my boy, please make an old man happy and tell me you have come to be a student at Hogwarts."

Albus inhaled, out of breath from his speech, then waited with bated breath for Harry's response, watching his face. Harry was silent for a few heartbeats, his stoic expression not changing, but then - to Albus's relief - the bottom half of Harry's face broke rank with the rest of him and began to move as he opened his mouth and began speaking.

"Good to meet you, Headmaster. I realize my arrival was unorthodox; my guardians wished me to test the security of Hogwarts. I will be up front with you. So far, I've seen no evidence of any security; I've passed unopposed and undetected. As such, I've only been authorized to reveal extremely limited information. Will this be a problem, sir?"

Harry's tone was flat, his English fluent but with an indeterminate accent, with only a vague British inflection on predominantly American sounds. Albus didn't like this. Didn't like the idea that Harry was being influenced, controlled, _authorized_ , but some other force. Didn't like that Harry was testing the defenses of Hogwarts, didn't like that he'd found them lacking.

Above all, Albus didn't like that he couldn't express any of this displeasure. He needed Harry Potter at Hogwarts, and didn't want him to vanish as suddenly as he'd appeared. He would proceed with caution.

"Well, Harry, I am concerned for your welfare and I hope to one day gain your trust, but I admit that I do not have it now with good reason. I must disagree with you about the security of the school. Hogwarts is not protected against you, or any other student who has been accepted. Your presence was something we hoped for, not something we guarded against, my dear boy!"

Harry didn't speak, and Albus felt a tinge of irritation. The boy was waiting for a direct answer. The careful evasiveness he had cultivated in his long years as Headmaster and Chief Warlock would not serve him here. He capitulated.

"I will not pry into any details you do not wish to disclose, Harry. Is that acceptable? What can you tell me of how you came to be sitting in my office this evening?" Albus asked, and Harry responded immediately.

"My guardians informed me that I'm a wizard at the beginning of the summer. They are not wizards themselves but knew a little bit about my situation. They assessed my security and found it lacking, and decided to extract me from the Dursleys and take me in."

Again Albus had to suppress a frown. He didn't bother interrupting Harry, as he was clearly correct, in at least one very important sense. All of the protections Albus had placed on Harry and the Dursley household, through Lily Potter's sister Petunia, had been aimed at those who intended to harm Harry. If these mysterious guardians had truly only been _concerned_ for him, the protections would have been entirely ineffective at preventing them from abducting Harry. Or _extracting_ him, as the boy phrased it. Harry continued with his recounting, his tone clinically precise and lacking any emotional prosody.

"While not focused on England, my guardians monitored the terrorist known by the _nom de guerre_ Voldemort. This was how they became interested in me. They recently have obtained and verified intelligence indicating that Voldemort is not dead, or at least not… fully so."

Albus was somewhat relieved, as Harry's slight pause indicated he was not comfortable with the idea of someone being not _fully_ dead. This was the first indication of any sort that Harry had any feelings whatsoever. However, Albus's relief was short lived as it became increasingly apparent just how much Harry knew about the Dark Lord. Attempting to steer him, even gently, would be difficult.

"My guardians felt the best course of action with Voldemort out of the picture was to keep me separate from magical society. Voldemorts followers, the so-called Death Eaters, would not have the tenacity to hunt me down. However, my guardians felt that Voldemort himself would not rest until he found me and extracted revenge for his defeat, which was credited to me. Hiding would have been presented too much risk and was no longer an option."

"That it why I am here, Headmaster. My guardians agree that the lesser risk in this case is a direct assault, a preemptive strike. Voldemort is weak, his remaining forces complacent and disorganized. Our intelligence suggests most still believe him dead. This is to 0ur advantage, and my guardians do not squander advantages. Unfortunately, my guardians are not Wizards and they cannot teach me how to use my magic, how to navigate the society I was born a part of."

"This is what I am authorized to tell you. My primary objective is to confirm that Voldemort is still alive and then eliminate him if he is. My secondary objective is to learn how to use magic, for which I have been given three years to study at Hogwarts. I will comply with the rules of the school while here but will be free to leave during breaks. I will not disclose my location when I'm not at school, and will not be able to receive communication through the usual avian channels."

Albus waited, but it appeared that Harry's monologue was over. Albus had thought his mind had been a maelstrom before Harry had spoken, yet it had been a mere ripple compared to the fierce storm of thoughts that now raged through the canny old wizard's mind. Yet Albus Dumbledore's face remained calm and kindly, if slightly baffled, betraying nothing of the inner turmoil. Albus had faced a great many trials in his life, and little could ruffle his outward disposition. For now, he would continue to tread carefully.

"I'm saddened that you should see it as your responsibility, at such a young age, to take the life of another, even one as evil as Lord Voldemort. I hope you'll allow me attempt to dissuade you from this idea, to help you explore other potential options. There is little I can do to shield you from the consequences should you break the rules of Hogwarts, or from the Ministry if you break any laws. With those caveats, I accept your conditions."

With this said, Albus rose and walked over to the shelf on his wall where the Sorting Hat reposed for most of the year. He picked up the frayed artifact.

"Every student must be Sorted, Harry. On the rare occasions when students are admitted to Hogwarts after their first years, they are Sorted before the Welcoming Feast, after the present first year group. Since you've missed the Sorting, and your circumstances so… unique, I think it best if we get this taken care of in private. Your presence here will not remain a secret outside of the castle for long, but we need not provide a spectacle to give the rumors fuel."

In truth, Albus simply wanted to get a hook into Harry. The boy was entirely too independent, too committed to his mysterious guardians. The Sorting more than any other event was what marked the beginning of a student's time at Hogwarts. Though Albus knew the Hat would never share details of a student's mind with him, he hoped the Founders' relic could pierce through Harry's unshakable equanimity.

Harry nodded, which Albus took as invitation to place the Hat on Harry's head.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The Hat's sudden shout rang out stridently in the quiet office after about a minute's silence. Did Albus detect a slightly satisfied upward tilt to the boy's lips? He couldn't be sure, but he thought so.

"Ah, wonderful, my boy. I am confident that your parents, James and Lily, would be proud that their son is following in their footsteps as a Gryffindor. Now, you have a wand, I assume? We'll need to get you into some Hogwarts robes before your first class in the morning…"

Albus bustled on, in his element. The boy simply sat there, accepting it at all, nodding or shaking his head when appropriate. That was enough for Albus, enough for now. Despite the concerning irregularity of Harry's enigmatic arrival at Hogwarts, the Headmaster was glad to finally have the Boy-Who-Lived at the school, where he belonged.

He'd be able to figure everything else out on the fly, as he'd done many times in the past.


End file.
